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Wottest [17] thou, reader, of a little town, Which thereabouts they call Bob-up-and-down, Under the Blee, in Canterbury way? Well, there our host began to jest and play, And said, “Hush, hush now: Dun is in the mire. What, sirs? will nobody, for prayer or hire, Wake our good gossip, sleeping here behind? Here were a bundle for a thief to find. See, how he noddeth! by St. Peter, see! He’ll tumble off his saddle presently. Is that a cook of London, red flames take him! He knoweth the agreement—wake him, wake him: We’ll have his tale, to keep him from his nap, Although the drink turn out not worth the tap. Awake, thou cook,” quoth he; “God say thee nay; What aileth thee to sleep thus in the day? Hast thou had fleas all night? or art thou drunk? Or didst thou sup with my good lord the monk, And hast a jolly surfeit in thine head?”

This cook that was full pale, and nothing red,

Stared up, and said unto the host, “God bless

My soul, I feel such wondrous heaviness,

I know not why, that I would rather sleep

Than drink of the best gallon-wine in Cheap.”

“Well,” quoth the Manciple, “if it might ease

Thine head, Sir Cook, and also none displease

Of all here riding in this company,

And mine host grant it, I would pass thee by,

Till thou art better, and so tell my tale; For in good faith thy visage is full pale; Thine eyes grow dull, methinks; and sure I am, Thy breath resembleth not sweet marjoram, Which showeth thou canst utter no good matter: Nay, thou mayst frown forsooth, but I’ll not flatter. See, how he gapeth, lo! this drunken wight; He’ll swallow us all up before he’ll bite; Hold close thy mouth, man, by thy father’s kin; The fiend himself now set his foot therein, And stop it up, for ’twill infect us all; Fie, hog; fie, pigsty; foul thy grunt befall. Ah—see, he bolteth! there, sirs, was a swing; Take heed—he’s bent on tilting at the ring: He’s the shape, isn’t he? to tilt and ride! Eh, you mad fool! go to your straw, and hide.”

Now with this speech the cook for rage grew black,

And would have stormed, but could not speak, alack!

So mumbling something, from his horse fell he,

And where he fell, there lay he patiently,

Till pity on his shame his fellows took.

Here was a pretty horseman of a cook!

Alas! that he had held not by his ladle!

And ere again they got him on his saddle,

There was a mighty shoving to and fro

To lift him up, and muckle care and woe,

So heavy was this carcase of a ghost.

Then to the Manciple thus spake our host:—

“Since drink upon this man hath domination,

By nails! and as I reckon my salvation,

I trow he would have told a sorry tale;

For whether it be wine, or it be ale,

That he hath drank, he speaketh through the nose,

And sneezeth much, and he hath got the pose, [19] And also hath given us business enow To keep him on his horse, out of the slough; He’ll fall again, if he be driven to speak, And then, where are we, for a second week? Why, lifting up his heavy drunken corse! Tell on thy tale, and look we to his horse. Yet, Manciple, in faith thou art too nice Thus openly to chafe him for his vice. Perchance some day he’ll do as much for thee, And bring thy baker’s bills in jeopardy, Thy black jacks also, and thy butcher’s matters, And whether they square nicely with thy platters.”

“Mine,” quoth the Manciple, “were then the mire!

Much rather would I pay his horse’s hire,

And that will be no trifle, mud and all,

Than risk the peril of so sharp a fall.

I did but jest. Score not, ye’ll be not scored.

And guess ye what? I have here, in my gourd,

A draught of wine, better was never tasted,

And with this cook’s ladle will I be basted,

If he don’t drink of it, right lustily.

Upon my life he’ll not say nay. Now see.”

And true it was, the cook drank fast enough;

Down went the drink out of the gourd, fluff, fluff: Alas! the man had had enough before: And then, betwixt a trumpet and a snore, His nose said something,—grace for what he had; And of that drink the cook was wondrous glad.

Our host nigh burst with laughter at the sight,

And sighed and wiped his eyes for pure delight,

And said, “Well, I perceive it’s necessary,

Where’er we go, good wine with us to carry.

What needeth in this world more strifes befall?

Good wine’s the doctor to appease them all.

O, Bacchus, Bacchus! blessed be thy name,

That thus canst turn our earnest into game.

Worship and thanks be to thy deity.

So on this head ye get no more from me.

Tell on thy tale, Manciple, I thee pray.”

“Well, sire,” quoth he, “now hark to what I say.”